


Yet Our Roots Remain the Same

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASOS Spoilers, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Children, F/M, Family, Future Fic, Gen, Gen Fic, Miscarriage, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, Jon has something his brother, the King, does not, and the situation brings him no satisfaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet Our Roots Remain the Same

The bite in the early morning air clears Jon’s head, steadies his shoulders as he handles a blunted sword in the training yard. Robb stands opposite him, his jaw clenched while he gets a steady grip on his shield. Even with the cutting reminder of winter in the air he feels like a young boy for a moment, facing his trueborn brother with nothing but his skill to protect him. The moment passes, and Jon makes the first advance toward Robb, blunted sword arching in front of him in a bright flash of steel.

Few men loiter to watch their training, routine as it is. When Jon had first returned to Winterfell he’d been sized up and inspected by near every fighter of note—each of them looking for something in the King’s brother, a quality to explain his success with the wildlings and the ironborn—but now their sparring has become mundane to those in the castle. Moving quickly, Jon now has experience to back up his movements, and despite his brother’s bulkier stature he makes quick work of Robb, sending his sword flying. Their practice is usually much more vigorous, with either of them likely to win on any given day, but Robb’s clenched jaw and stiff shoulders tell Jon all he needs to know.

Jon stands facing him, his own sword pointed at Robb’s chest, both of them breathing heavily. Instead of readying themselves for another go, Jon frowns and lowers his sword, studying his brother more closely. He nods toward the armory, and with that simple gesture much of the tension eases from Robb’s stature. They will not be sparring today, it seems.

“What is it?” Jon asks, the pair of them shedding the armor they just put on. “Something’s bothering you.”

Robb’s mouth is twisted into a frown, his jaw set in a way that Jon has understood since boyhood. “It’s Roslin,” he says, quietly, like he fears being overheard. 

Glancing around, Robb suggests they go to the godswood, the setting for most of their more serious conversations. With Robb as King in the North and Jon as his Hand, they spend much of their time talking beneath the wirewood branches.

“Is she ill?” Jon asks, walking in step with Robb as Ghost bounds forward through the trees, sniffing out Shaggydog while they settle beneath the heart tree.

“No, but I fear that she is unhappy. She had a miscarriage several moons ago and it has colored our every conversation,” Robb says, his brow knitted. “She is certain that I’m displeased with her over the loss of the babe no matter how many times I try to convince her otherwise.”

Twisting a fallen leaf in his gloved hand, Jon says, “And I’m sure it doesn’t help that Val has already had a son.”

Robb’s eyes crinkle, a half-smile tugging at his features. “I can’t have you feeling guilty over that as well. My own mother took me aside after the birth, asking how _attentive_ I’ve been with Roslin.”

Releasing a bark of laughter, Jon has to restrain himself from teasing Robb. Lady Catelyn’s displeasure at the birth of Jon’s son had been poorly concealed, especially in light of Roslin’s failure to conceive. However, her unhappiness had been trivial in comparison to the overwhelming congratulations Jon had received from every other soul in Winterfell, the abundant smiles and gruff claps on the shoulder from Mikken and Ser Rodrick and others.

Bran and Rickon had been most especially pleased, both of them excited to be uncles, even if Rickon pretended to be disinterested in the baby. Jon knew his youngest brother to be only pretending, though, after Val told him she’d caught Rickon in the nursery staring wide-eyed at the dark-haired boy that would go on to be called Benjen after the age of two. The birth of his son had made Jon feel a sort of pride he’d never known in himself, pride that he’d fathered a healthy child and that his wife had taken so well both to motherhood and to Winterfell itself. 

Val seemed as much a part of the castle as a true Stark, winning favor among the servant women for not putting on airs and admiration of her beauty from the men. Before the birth, it hadn’t been unusual for Jon to find her at the archery targets, a wirewood bow in her hand while she instructed one of his younger brothers on the best way to aim. Unfortunately, the very happiness that Jon had found with Val could not be seen in Robb’s marriage to Roslin, a fact that had escaped no one’s notice, Lady Catelyn’s least of all.

“Have you tried talking to her?” Jon says, not wanting to press too hard. He rarely shares details about his own marriage, and he has never felt the need to question Robb about his relationship with Roslin. As the King’s Hand, however, the issue of succession has come up, but every time Jon had dismissed it to himself, sure that Roslin would eventually conceive and give his brother a child. If not, there was always Bran, even if the prospect of a crippled King in the North didn’t sit well with some people.

Robb’s mouth is pressed into a harsh line. “I’ve tried. Talking does nothing to win her over.” A beat of silence follows, both men watching their wolves scruff around in the rocky earth by the hot pools. “She doesn’t like it here—I can tell.”

Guilt flares in Jon’s stomach. He hears what Robb isn’t saying, that things would be so much simpler if Roslin had taken to Winterfell as easily as Val, that everyone’s mind would be more at ease if Roslin were to give him a son the way Val had for Jon. For once, Jon has something his brother, the King, does not, and the situation brings him no satisfaction.

“Would you like me to talk to her?” Jon offers, not looking at Robb in his uncertainty. “Maybe it would help for her to speak with someone else.”

“Would you?” Robb asks, relief in his voice.

“Of course.”

A knot of anxiety begins to form in Jon’s chest—how can he make Roslin happy when she seems so out of place in the North?—but Robb’s trust in him settles the matter. He will do what he can to turn Roslin Frey into a true Northern Queen. Even if she will never feel as comfortable in Winterfell as Val, Jon hopes that he can return some of the generosity Robb has shown him and help his brother find some happiness with his southern bride.

\----

Roslin Stark is a pretty woman, even if her appearance is a world away from the head-turning good looks of Jon’s own wife. He stands in front of the door to her solar while a guard opens the door, Ghost trailing behind him as he enters the room, spying Sansa by the hearth with her good-sister.

“Your grace, I hate to disturb you, but there’s a matter we must discuss,” Jon says. Ghost pads over to Sansa and closes his eyes contentedly, letting her scratch him under the chin.

Offering a wary glance toward the direwolf, Roslin sits down her embroidery and straightens her posture. “Of course, Lord Stark. Please sit with me.”

Sansa rises from her place by the fire, smoothing the front of her skirt and giving Ghost one last absent pat on the head. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” she says, such a polite, practiced lady that Jon has to remind himself of her true age sometimes. He’d feared that her time in King’s Landing during the war would leave her harmed in some way, but even after being returned to Winterfell for over a year she has not spoken of the capital or the Lannisters. Robb had been reluctant to betroth her again so soon, unwilling to part with any of his siblings after nearly loosing them all, so she remained at home for the present.

But it is Roslin that concerns him now, her wide, dark eyes glancing at his wolf every so often. He has never seen the Queen with Grey Wind, at least not without Robb present, making Jon wonder if she remains uncomfortable around the wolves.

“How may I help you, my lord?” she asks. 

Robb had made him a Stark when he’d returned from the Wall, but the title of lord is a courtesy others began to use when he took up the position as Robb’s advisor. Jon never insists on it, still conscious of the many years he lived under a different surname.

Giving her a slight smile, he says, “It is somewhat the other way around. In truth, I’m here to ask after you. There has been concern that you are not as happy in Winterfell as one could hope.”

She looks away from him then, studying the embroidery that still rests in her lap. “I am happy to be Robb’s wife,” she confesses, and, to Jon, is carries the sound of truth. “It is only that I fear disappointing him, disappointing my king. I know there is talk, Lord Stark. Two years of marriage without a child does not bode well for me or my husband.”

Roslin is more observant than he’d given her credit for, Jon realizes. “My wife says that sometimes these things can take time,” he assures her. “Right now Robb is more concerned about your happiness than anything else.”

After hearing the sentiment from so many others Jon hopes that one added voice will assure her of the truth. It’s well known that he holds Robb’s confidence, but whether or not that will sway the young Queen is undetermined. Hoping his words have reached her, Jon takes his leave soon after that, smiling to himself when Ghost nudges Roslin’s hand with his muzzle.

\----

The weak winter sunlight has already disappeared by the time Jon makes it to the chambers he shares with Val. It has been some time since dinner, but after the meal he had talked with Robb and some of the visiting lords for several hours, making plans for the harsh winter that is nearly upon them. Jon’s eyes are tired from looking over maps and ledgers of accounts, and a tension has settled in his spine that no amount of wine or ribald jokes can alleviate.

Most of all he wants to see Benjen before retiring, choosing to slip into the nursery before seeking out his wife. His son is sleeping quietly when he arrives, and though Jon would love to hold him or look into his pale blue eyes, he restrains himself for the moment, watching the babe sleep undisturbed. Benjen has his dark hair and Val’s blue eyes, with a fair, Northern complexion.

A light touch on his arm alerts him to Val’s presence. Turning his head slightly, Jon looks at her out of the corner of his eye, his arm snaking around her waist.

“What are you doing in here?” she whispers, trying not to wake Benjen.

“Just looking,” he says truthfully. “It’s like he gets bigger every day.”

“Yes,” Val says teasingly. “Children often grow, I hear. Some even turn into adults.”

Jon can practically hear her smirking next to him, so he covers her mouth with his own, pulling her body close to his in the darkened nursery. Her lips part and they kiss each other slowly, each of them trying to be quiet as his fingers brush her ribcage, trail over her clavicle and along her jaw. Val slides her warm tongue over his and Jon pulls her even closer to him, practically lifting her off the floor.

She threads her fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, brushing her lips over his cheek while she traces the scars that cross over his eye. Robb and Roslin may not love each other yet, not truly, but Jon had wanted this with Val long before he’d ever admitted it to himself. It hadn’t been a mere desire for her body, though that had been there as well, but another, less familiar feeling that had proved hard to understand at the time. Now he feels it in every brush of her hand against his, in every conversation that turns to talk of Benjen and every smile from Val that is just for him.

Jon leads her out of the nursery and into her adjoining rooms, hoping to make another child just as wonderful as the son he never expected to have.

**fin.**


End file.
